One-night Stand
by huumanerror
Summary: A couple years have passed since their first meeting, and now Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler meet somewhere in Bulgaria. However, at the very beginning of the night, none of them expects they will end up locked in a cell together.


Hey everyone! A long time ago I promised to write another adlock fan fiction but, unfortunately, that didn't happen and will probably not happen in the future. However, here's a one shot I wrote for my best friend! Also big shout out to her, my partner in crime, true adlock shipper and half of a brain behind this story, it's always a pleasure to talk about my two favourite characters with you. This fan fiction would definitely not happen without her brilliant ideas!

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It wasn't like Sherlock had planned for both of them to spend the night together. It wasn't like he wanted to spend with her more time than it was required while having dinner in a quiet, quite private and elegant restaurant somewhere in Bulgaria.

Irene Adler was there because he wanted her to be, but that didn't in any way mean that the prospect of spending the whole night in her company was something he had been looking forward to.

It started the way everyone would expect it to. A man and a woman eating dinner together, and although from the side they might have looked like two regular people enjoying each other's company (or at least trying not to look like their meeting was in any way unusual), both of them knew there was nothing usual about it. Their meeting was not an accident, knowing for so long she'd been alive, and knowing he'd been the one to grant her the life she was now living, Sherlock simply couldn't get her out of his head. Obviously, he wasn't thinking about her every second of every day. He had criminals to catch, angry, grieving friend to get back, overprotective brother to annoy and mysterious, younger and psychotic sister to deal with. He was, after all, a busy man and he had no time to spare. But then even he, the great Sherlock Holmes with his mind organised in a perfect system of drawers and files, sometimes let himself rest. And when his mind was quiet, free from his daily concerns and businesses, there she was, appearing from around the corner, first her voice whispering to him, then her face with a well-known, devilish smile, then everything she was and everything he associated with her – boomerangs and whips, the smell of her perfume, sad, melancholic tunes of his violin. There were so many things in his everyday life that reminded him of her, even unconsciously, when he was turning his head after a dark-haired woman passing him on the street, suddenly thinking that, somehow, she managed to sneak back in to London unnoticed by his brother. He knew very well this wasn't true and that it would probably never happen and he was relieved – he didn't want the physical her, part of his being liked only the idea of her, the images and sensations his mind created when it was not occupied by more important things.

But, except for these images, sounds and smells, Irene Adler existed in his life in a form of text messages – ones that started appearing one day completely unexpected, and then became the part of his daily routine. At first, he hadn't been too willing to text her back – he had known what it would have meant, letting her know he had been interested, engaging with her in smart and witty mind games she'd always loved to play. But he also couldn't have ignored her, not when the screen of his phone lightened, when the moaning sound reached his ear so that, eventually, he'd been forced to put it on mute, worried that someone might hear it and terrified of the things this sound made him feel.

She was more than a memory of a great adventure, more than just a woman he'd once stumbled upon, more than he'd ever wanted anyone to be. She wasn't there, but at the same time he felt her presence every step of the way, and part of him enjoyed the feeling of her thinking about him, of her sitting in some distant place, maybe on the beach in a burning sun, surrounded by the sound of turquoise waves hitting the shore, typing another message, smiling to herself with the smile that he so often saw in his mind. He'd always loved attention – he would never admit it to anyone out loud, but being admired and looked at had always made him feel special, and being aware of the fact that this particular woman, the only woman that had ever managed to rule his mind in that way, decided to give him some of her attention made him feel good. Just good. He could try denying it, he could try telling himself that texting her back would do no harm and that it meant absolutely nothing, that sometimes he was just bored in the usual London rut and she was a great distraction to the boring routine that made him lose interest quite quickly in whatever he was currently doing, but then he knew he'd be lying, because there was nothing unusual either about him, her or their non-existent relationship that had started to form between them through constant texts and mutual affection, that none of them was ready to admit.

Affection seemed like a word that did not exist in Sherlock's dictionary. It would never get through his throat, but it was always there, in the back of his head or on the tip of his tongue, never to be said, always to be considered. He was never affectionate, he despised affection, despised the sentiment and despised people who were showing to much of it, constantly being driven by their human desires and feelings. Trying to keep himself away from all of this eventually had made him more vulnerable and maybe even more exposed.

So, there he was, sitting in a Bulgarian restaurant, glass of red wine in front of him, the heat of the late July evening coming through the open window, the sound of the waves adding to the romantic and definitely unsuitable for the situation atmosphere and a gentle breeze brushing his cheeks.

And there was she, Irene Adler in all her glory, with the same glass of wine, the same blue eyes that resembled the colour of the sea outside the restaurant and that he knew so well, and the same smile, mysterious and sort of unreachable, telling him million things, at the same time telling nothing at all.

"I'm glad you agreed" the woman finally broke the silence, looking at him patiently like she wanted to give him time to get used to her physical presence, after a long time of being apart and being only the letters pictured on the screen of his phone.

"Don't be" he managed to answer, not being sure why he agreed to meeting her. He'd been doing great without having her around, dealing only with a memory and a ghost of the past, but maybe he needed some closure, the end to the story, the one that would never be published on a blog for everyone to read. Privacy was something he'd used to hold dear – it was so different from getting someone's attention. He'd always liked to keep some things for himself, and in this foreign city, he was sure of that, everything would stay between them and the sea. The things said that one night would never see the daylight and would disappear with the first ray of the rising sun.

"The world didn't end after all" Irene took a sip of her wine, studying him for or a moment. Her smile widened a little bit, creating the small wrinkles around the corners of her lips. For the first time in a very long time she felt good. No matter what would happen that night, and every night after this one, she could keep the memory of this one dinner for ever. She had to bury her pride deep under the ground, even if only for herself, had to let her guard down a little bit in order to enjoy it with every piece of her being. She was no longer the person she'd been couple years ago in London, and he was no longer the same detective she'd meet back then. So many things had changed, but also so many of them had remained the same. There was no plan, no script, she had no idea what she wanted to say or hear, but she was glad – she wasn't lying about that – that he agreed to meet her, because she'd gotten used to him either ignoring her or refusing her every proposal. Getting him in the same room as she, and sitting him by the same table, seemed to her like a miracle for which she would be grateful to the very end.

"No, it didn't" there was a coldness and the usual distance to his voice – that thing had not changed – but she was willing to work with that, and she didn't mind. That lack of emotions, the mystery surrounding him when he was really trying to stay away from everything that constituted being human made him who he was and who she really liked.

"It's been a very long time. Did you miss me?" Sherlock hesitated for a moment, holding her gaze and letting Irene search for an answer in his almost emotionless eyes. Had he missed her? Or had he only desired the challenge she was? The brilliant brain she possessed? The splendid opponent she was to him?

"I hardly ever miss anything. Or anyone"

"It's hard for me to believe this, Sherlock.

The evening continued like any other one. They ordered and ate, they drunk more wine and talked, occasionally exchanging comments about the poor service, ridiculous guests, the weather. She tried to entertain him, she tried flirting with him, trying to keep him from losing interest in her. It was harder than she'd thought – for most of the time his answers constituted of few short words spoken to her like she was no one important. When he looked at her, she felt like she wasn't really there, at least not for him, and only when he thought she wasn't paying attention, she was able to catch his eyes studying her. There was something different about him, but Irene was not sure what exactly it was. Her time was running out and she didn't want to waste it on pointless small talk, not knowing when would be the next time they would see each other.

"How's John?" she asked somewhere in the middle of the second course, putting the fork down.

"Good, I suppose. If you're interested in his well-being, you could have invited him as well"

"Does he know I'm alive?"

"Yes"

"Did you tell him?"

"No"

"For goodness sake, Sherlock. Do you know any other words?" she sounded annoyed and she just couldn't help it. Trying to make a conversation with this man was like talking to someone who was speaking a completely different language. Sherlock didn't respond immediately, instead raised his head from above his plate, staring at her with these cold eyes and for a second she thought his stare could turn her into stone. If only she was afraid of him.

"What exactly do you expect from me?"

"Anything more than a "yes" and a "no", and something indicating that you're enjoying yourself even a little bit"

"What if I don't?"

"Hard for me to believe this" she sent him a short smile and winked, before she got back to her dinner.

It was hard on him. Sitting in front of the one person that made him feel all sorts of things. It was hard, because he had to try keep everything to himself. Letting his guard down meant letting her win. It meant giving up. It meant admitting that there was some part of him that craved that one aspect of humanity that she so well embodied. It meant giving himself to her on a gold plate and letting Irene Adler do whatever she desired, and Sherlock was well aware that it could end only one way. She would create a disaster, a chaos, she would be like a hurricane turning his world upside down, and then leaving him to collect the pieces she'd teared into shreds. He wasn't afraid of being hurt, although he'd been hurt before and somehow the thought of it made him sick. He didn't like feeling vulnerable and exposing himself to others, but it wasn't his greatest concern. He was afraid that if he showed himself to her, gave her even the smallest piece of his well-guarded soul, everything he'd despised would turn out to be true. There was no time or place for this. But if that had been the case, then why was he there?

"The man over there is cheating on his wife with the waitress" sometime over the dessert Sherlock finally initiated the conversation, indicating with the slight movement of his head who he was talking about. Irene raised her eyebrows, and then slowly turned to look at the couple sitting by the table on the other side of the room.

"How do you know?"

"You tell me" he was getting bored of the evening, chit-chatting with the woman wasn't what he'd been imagining all this time, but he could only blame himself for how this dinner turned out. He was absent, not willing to engage with her in any conversation she tried to have with him. But now that their time was slowly ending, he finally realised what he was missing and what was sitting right in front of him all this time.

Leaving the restaurant, Sherlock paid the bill and opened the door for her, letting them both out to the warm, summer night. From the distance, they could hear the sounds of the city night life, music and voices all mixed together and unable to be distinguished. They stopped on the street in front of the restaurant.

"It was a pleasure, Ms Adler" the detective said finally, knowing it was time for them to say their goodbyes. Final or not, suddenly he felt a struck of disappointment. Parting ways with her seemed harder now, knowing that it was possible to see her and spend time with her, even if for most of the evening he tried so hard not to enjoy himself. But just looking at her, having her around not as a visualisation but as a living and breathing person, made him feel better about everything.

"Really? I would never tell"

"I'm sorry, I usually don't do dinners"

"Oh, don't apologize, I suppose spending the time with one person that's more brilliant than you are would be hard for everyone" she smiled and turned her head slightly to the side, waiting to see his expression.

"I don't suppose you're talking about yourself"

"Of course, dear. But don't worry, there are ways you can make it up to me. The night's still young" she stepped a little bit closer and raised her hands to fix the collar of his shirt, then gently touched his cheek with her fingers.

"What ways?"

"Let's walk" she turned from him and started down the street, leaving stunned Sherlock behind. He admired how easy it was for her just to be, to talk, to behave the way she behaved. He was tempted to admit he envied her this easiness, the feeling she spread around herself and the way she made people – him – feel.

He followed her, because what else was there for him to do, across the street, towards the noises of the city only just now waking up, despite it being the middle of the night. For some time, they just walked hand in hand, passing people laughing and dancing, enjoying the long summer days, their youth and their freedom. Looking at them made Sherlock think about his own lost youth, the things he regretted he'd never done and the things he was glad he'd missed. Irene, on the other hand, thought about the past she wanted to go back to, about the idealised image of her childhood that was lost, stuck in her mind and never to be retrieved again.

When they reached the corner of the street, Irene turned right and then stopped suddenly, standing face to face with an armed and masked man. The screams they took for a natural sounds of partying people were, in fact, the screams of a terrified crowd trying to attract someone's attention. The masked man pointed the gun at Irene and Sherlock, waving it around like he wasn't really sure how to use it. He said something in Bulgarian, something none of them understood, and when it was clear to him they did not speak the same language, he turned to English, speaking his words with a strong accent.

"Give me your money or I kills you"

" _Kill_ you" Sherlock corrected him automatically, and Irene shot him a surprised look, before turning her eyes back to the man.

"What?" he was probably just as surprised as she was, not expecting the person he was pointing a gun at to try and outsmart him.

"You used the third person of a verb to express what you're going to do to us if we don't give you our money. The proper form when speaking about yourself is 'kill', not 'kills'" the detective explained, and Irene couldn't contain a short laugh that escaped her mouth. The masked man was so shocked that he stopped paying attention to her, looking at Sherlock and probably wondering why the man was risking his life when he was clearly the one having control over the whole situation.

"Shut up! Shut up, or I kill the pretty lady!" eventually he remembered her presence and pointed his gun back at her. Sherlock looked unimpressed and this kept Irene calm. She was almost sure he rolled his eyes before speaking again.

"Easy, you want money? Here" the detective reached to his pocket and took his wallet out. He reached his hand towards the man, making him come closer in order to take the wallet from him, and when he did, Sherlock grabbed his hand, breaking it until both Irene and the armed man could hear his bone crack. Then he kicked the man in his stomach, making him bent in half and dropping the gun, which Irene immediately picked up, right in time for the police officers to appear from around the corner and see her pointing a gun at a bleeding and crying in pain man lying on the street. Sherlock was standing over him with his mask in his hand and the whole thing looked like the couple was the one that attacked the poor man. Unfortunately for them, the small crowd that couple minutes ago was gathered behind them, now disappeared.

The officers shouted something in Bulgarian and reached for their guns, surrounding Sherlock and Irene.

"When you said you wanted to make up for the evening, did you mean that?" Sherlock whispered her way, giving her a quick look and a brief half smile.

"Not exactly" Irene answered, before raising her hands.

Bulgarian police either didn't know English, or preferred pretending they didn't know it rather than discuss with two foreigners claiming to be innocent. Both Sherlock and Irene tried persuading officers that they were only stopping the robbery of what appeared to be a jewellery store, but no one seemed to believe them and, after long minutes of screaming in Bulgarian and waving guns and hands at them, they ended up in a small, dark and cold cell with nothing but a cement floor, walls, small square window close to the ceiling and each other as the only company.

"You know, I thought we were past all of this" Irene started approximately ten minutes after the door to the cell closed and they were left alone. She was pacing across the room, still wearing her long, black dress with a deep cut across her leg and black heels. Sherlock, having decided there was nothing he could do about it for now, sat on the floor, his head tilted back and resting on the wall, eyes slightly closed; he wasn't sleeping, just thinking about everything that had happened before between them and the fact that, apparently, there was no way for him to escape her company. At the sound of her voice he opened his eyes and looked at the woman now sitting across from him, studying him.

"Past what?"

"Pretending, playing games, jumping around each other like nothing has ever happened"

"It's always games with you, isn't that the point of your whole existence?"

"See? You know me so well. Come on, Mr Holmes, have some fun once in a while" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, confused, being almost sure what she had in mind. After all this time, he really felt like he knew her almost as well he was aware there were still many things she kept in secret from him. Once upon a time he'd taken upon himself discovering all of them, unlocking all of the mysteries she was holding. Now, so many years after it all had started, he still had no idea who she really was, except for being the person she wanted him to see.

"There's little fun you can have in a square cell"

"Oh, no no, you should know better than to underestimate me like this" there it was, this devilish smile of hers, the one that, he was pretty sure, could bring almost every man and probably some women to their knees. She reached her foot, having taken the shoes off before, and gently stroked his calf, holding his gaze. The question was, if Sherlock was one of these people ready to kneel in front of her. Or rather, if he wanted to be.

"You never answered my question" Irene's voice got him out of his thoughts. For a while, they were just sitting in silence on the opposite sides of the cell. Sherlock was thinking – about her, but also about London, his recent cases, his sister, his brother, John, Mary. When she spoke, he opened his eyes and looked at her, his look asking a question he knew he didn't have to say out loud. "Back at Baker Street, six years ago."

"We just had dinner, I think this is enough of an answer"

"No, not that one. Before that, I asked if you'd ever had anyone" the detective sat silent for a while, not sure what the right response would be.

"Why does it interest you so much?" he asked finally, feeling a little fed up with this conversation already.

"Just curious" she shrugged, smiling at him "And that's kind of the point of my whole existence, as you already pointed out"

Sherlock considered her for a moment. He knew there were many ways he could avoid, once again, answering this question without actually leaving the room. But then part of him, for god knows what reason, wanted to answer, knowing that the answer might be surprising to her.

"Yes, once" he said eventually, holding her gaze and waiting to see how her expression changed. It was clear this wasn't the answer she'd been expecting, and it took her a second longer that usually to gather herself.

"Well, well, well, who would have thought Mr Sherlock Holmes was hiding a big, dirty secret. After all this time, you still can surprise me. I knew there was some interesting story behind all of this" she gestured with her hand up and down, to indicate she was talking about him.

"Oh, but you didn't"

"Pardon?"

"You didn't know I was hiding anything. You like to think you outsmart me and yes, I give you this, you are smarter than most people I usually encounter, but you'd never ask if you knew. Admitting to your failure is a sign of strength, not weakness"

"Like you can ever admit to your own failure"

"My failure? I never fail" his voice turned to be more competitive and curious at the same time. Wondering where she was going with this, Sherlock must have admitted that being locked in one cell with her wasn't half as bad as he'd thought it would be.

"Is that so? You being here is a sign of your failure. You said sentiment was a chemical defect, you considered every emotion a weakness, but then you saved me, knowing very well I deserved what I got. If we've ever been playing a game, this is you losing now. I might have lost a battle back then, when you guessed the passcode and left me to your brother, but now I am winning the war" the satisfaction bloomed on her face with every word, and by the time she finished Irene was smiling at him, feeling confident in the truth behind her statement. Sherlock sat in his place, looking at her in silence, being surprised by everything he'd just heard.

"You're right" he said and stood up, walking towards the small window.

"What did you say?"

"I am not going to repeat myself" Irene laughed behind him, resting her head on the wall and watching him from the distance.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Irene turned surprised towards Sherlock standing by the small window of their cell, looking at a clear night sky covered with stars.

"I thought you didn't concerned yourself with things of common beauty" he looked at her, regarding her for a moment before he spoke.

"Just because I don't decide to talk about it, doesn't mean I don't appreciate it. Night sky, piece of art or music, they carry a certain value even for me. The thing is not to see their beauty, but find something unique that speaks to you. Then, and only then, it can become truly beautiful and appreciated, for beauty is just a concept depended on individual perception of reality" his voice was calm; after some time spent locked in one cell, he no longer watched himself so closely. Their last conversation ended in a way that had already put him in a lost position. He was exposed, vulnerable, and there was no point in fighting her anymore. There was also no way of knowing how much longer would they be there, he assumed at least until morning, and boredom was something he simply did not accept.

"So, who's your favourite?" she asked, looking truly interested.

"Bach. Specifically, his Cello Suite No. 5 in C Minor. It was originally written for a cello, as the name suggests, but it can also be played on a violin"

"I personally enjoy Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor, let's say it has something… personal to it" now Sherlock was the one interested. This was not the answer he expected to hear from her, especially not if it was about classical music.

"I didn't know you liked classical music"

"There are many things you don't know about me" she smiled; it was truly impressive how simple conversation, when conducted with her, could easily turn into a subtle flirting with just one sentence and a simple gesture, movement of the corners of her lips and a spark in her eyes.

"It would appear we have the whole night, and I'm in no hurry" his expression softened, and on his face appeared something of a shadow of a smile.

"My mother was a pianist, she travelled a lot and played a lot. I was raised on Bach, Chopin, Mozart and Debussy. Every time she played, it was like she could transport you to another world, a whole different universe. For couple of minutes everything seemed good, everything was alright, there were not concerns or tragedies" none of them had expected to share any personal details, but at the same time telling him this story, even if it was only a drop in the ocean of everything she was, felt natural. Eventually, they sat back on the floor. They both starting to feel the tiredness and exhaustion from long hours of being awake. Irene wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing the shoulders to keep herself warm – despite it being the middle of summer, the cement walls of the cell made it feel extremely cold at night and being only in a thin dress, she started to feel the cold. Some time ago she'd decided to take off her shoes, for they'd made her feet hurt, and that definitely did not help with warming her up. Sherlock watched her for a moment, before getting up and taking his jacket off. He passed it to her, and she took it with a simple "thank you", surprised that finally they were able to move past all the differences and misunderstandings that had happened over the years. She expected him to sit opposite her, just as he'd been the whole night, but instead he lowered himself to sit next to her, keeping the small distance between their arms. He moved his head back, rested it on the wall behind, and close his eyes. For a moment, there was only silence around them and muffled noises coming from the street outside.

"My sister taught me how to play, apparently. I don't remember her, the memories of my childhood are still blurred and until couple months ago, I hadn't even known I had a sister" he wasn't going to tell her this, but then words came out of his mouth on their own, giving her probably one of the most vulnerable and true pictures of Sherlock Holmes she had ever seen.

Irene's face changed, she looked at the man sitting next to her with some unexplained sadness in her eyes, with regret of the things she'd done and the things she'd decided not to do.

"I know you have a sister. Eurus, is it?"

"Yes. I figured you know" She had to fight the temptation of touching his arm, comforting him in one way or another, but the only thing she managed to do was nod and look straight at the opposite wall.

"Why detective?" they were carrying their conversation for a while now, refusing to give up to the tiredness and the need to sleep. Somehow, both being too tired to keep up their usual appearances, they moved away from flirting and word games to talking about things they'd never expected themselves to talk about. There was less silence between their answers, less hesitating and picking the right words. They just flew naturally, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Why not? I think I'm quite good at it"

"Yes, but that's not the point. Did you always want to be a detective?"

"Would it surprise you less if I said that as a child, I wanted to be a pirate?" he was looking at her for the longest time he'd ever had, and the longer he looked, the more things he noticed about her – how her eyelashes dropped the slight shadow on her cheeks in the dim light of the lamppost coming through the window, the constellation of small, almost invisible freckles around her nose and under her eyes, how she was biting her lip slightly when she was thinking. Her hair, previously neatly tied at the back of her head, now fell down on her shoulders wrapped in his jacket. She was no longer the same woman, although she still had this power emanating from her every word and every gesture. She wasn't losing in his eyes, neither when she was asking questions, nor when she was telling her own stories. He realised he didn't need her to play word games with him all the time, to be able to appreciate her the same. Just like Bach's Cello Suite No. 5 in C Minor. Written for a cello, sounded just as beautifully when played on a violin.

"To be honest, yes. I would expect you to always be so uptight" Irene laughed shortly, but after a second she got serious and Sherlock knew it was her part to tell him something about herself. Was it going to be his opportunity to finally unlock her mystery? When she didn't say anything after a second, he realised that the change in her expression came from her remembering something, probably thinking about her childhood, something that upset her.

"Why dominatrix?" he asked, trying to push her, being desperate to use the given chance. She sighed, and closed her eyes, leaving him feeling like, once again, he was losing. When she finally spoke, he let her talk without interrupting, feeling like her every word was more than he deserved to hear.

"I told you my mother was a pianist. She married a man she thought was good, honest and gentle, but who appeared abusive and dangerous. After I was born, she stopped travelling and stopped working, she was playing only at home and only when she wasn't there. He was drinking a lot, and with every drink he was getting angrier, and, eventually, he crossed the line. She died right in front of my eyes, they said it was a head trauma and internal bleeding that caused her death, but I knew he was the real reason. After they locked him up, social services put me in a foster home and most of my teenage years I spent jumping from one family to another, never spending more than couple months in one home. I wasn't traumatised, I wasn't afraid of men or being touched just because my father was the way he was, but I hated him, all of them. And I wanted to avenge her mother, the life sentence he got was not enough for me. So, I figured that the best way to punish a man was to strip him out of his dignity. One thing I learned at home was that men had a weak spot for beautiful females. Give him one, and he'll give you everything you need to destroy him. I started gathering their secrets and using them to make them feel powerless. It was meant to be temporary, but eventually I realised I liked it. It no longer mattered if these were men or women, discovering their secrets, weak spots and deepest desires made me feel like I was finally in control of something, because I'd never been in control of what had happened to me before. So, I carried on, built myself a reputation, left America and got in some troubles. I'm sure you know the rest of the story."

She smiled, but Sherlock could see the silent, almost invisible pain in her eyes. There was nothing he could do about it, these were old wounds that would probably never be healed. What he could do, was give her something in return, to not make her feel so vulnerable, left with one of her biggest secrets exposed to him.

"When I was a child, I had a friend, his name was Victor. We played together almost all the time, we pretended we were pirates and played on the beach close to my family home. And one day he disappeared. One day he was there, and another he was gone. Eurus killed him, but for the longest time I had no idea. I didn't even know he existed, I altered the memory of him completely, believed he was my dog, Redbeard, but we'd never had a dog." It was still painful for him, thinking about Victor, trying to remember the past the way it really was, but somehow telling this story out loud made him feel relieved, like some weight was taken off his shoulders.

"I'm sorry about Victor"

"I'm sorry about your mother" there was another long silence between them, but this time it felt oddly comfortable. Finally, there was some understanding, the line connecting them in a way they'd never connected to anyone else.

"As a person who claims to have no human emotions, you're well acquainted with every single thing that people do or feel. But I guess all that childhood trauma explains a lot" Irene said eventually, finally looking at Sherlock still sitting next to her.

"You don't need to be a car to understand how it operates"

"Really? And that's the only example you can come up with? A car?" Irene couldn't contain a laugh. Sherlock observed her for a moment, her face lighting up despite the darkness surrounding the cell, her lips curving slightly in a smile. He chuckled, and then eventually laughed shortly, what was surprising for both of them. Irene wasn't sure she'd ever seen him laugh, or even smile for that matter, but there was something in that gesture that made her feel relaxed. And it definitely relieved the tension.

Irene didn't even realise she'd fallen asleep, when she woke up hearing some strange voices. What was more surprising though, was the fact that her head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. She sat straight, noticing him looking towards the door of the cell. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes that made his face look even thinner. She figured he didn't sleep last night at all, letting her rest instead, and she was grateful for that, although she couldn't really tell she was feeling better.

"How long do you think it'll take?" she asked, trying to keep herself from yawning. The cell was drowned in a bright daylight, but she couldn't tell what time it was.

"I don't know" he said, and Irene felt like there was once again this well-known coldness to his voice. She wanted to believe everything they said last night had some influence on how he would behave in the morning, but it seemed there was no chance. She must have admitted, she liked the softer side of Sherlock Holmes, the one probably very few people had the pleasure to see. And she didn't mind him knowing her secrets, she owed him her life, the least she could do was be honest, even if it only concerned her past.

They didn't talk anymore for some time, when, finally, they heard approaching footsteps and voices, and the door to their cell opened. The man, looking like a senior police officer, smiled at them, holding two plastic bags with their personal belongings.

"Good morning. I am so sorry for the misunderstanding, I wasn't in the office last night, and my people, they're…" the man said, trying to find the right words to explain the behaviour of the police officers from the previous night. He stopped mid-sentence, realising there was no satisfying excuse "Anyway, I'm once again really sorry. You're obviously free to go, cleared of any charges. I hope you'll enjoy your stay!" he continued cheerfully, holding the door open for them. Irene and Sherlock exchanged amused looks and got up from the floor. The detective offered the woman his hand, helping her up. She grabbed her shoes and followed him out, taking the plastic bag from the officer. Without any word, they followed him towards the entrance, and out to the sunny morning.

Sherlock stopped in front of the station, looking around before, eventually, focusing his eyes on Irene. None of them knew what to say. Maybe everything that needed to be said had already been told the previous night, or maybe the understanding and connection that appeared between them was enough. They stood in silence, while Irene put on her shoes and took her bag, throwing the plastic one into a bin.

"Well, that was definitely one dinner I'll never forget" she said finally, trying to break the sudden tension. When he didn't answer, she made a step closer, considering him for a moment, before reaching her hand and gently running her fingers down his jaw "I believe you have my number. Don't forget to use it" she added with a small smile, before leaning in and gently pressing her lips to his. Irene let it last for a while, feeling first the tension building up in him, and then slowly releasing, as he was giving up, eventually returning the kiss. Then, not wanting it to last too long, afraid it would mean more than she wanted it to, she pulled back and walked away, leaving Sherlock Holmes completely stunned, the way he'd never been before.


End file.
